Belief
by LovingCurlyBlackHair
Summary: Molly Hooper knows he still alive. After all, she was the one to help him fake his death, but that does not mean that she knows that he is still alive now.


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing. All credit for the character goes to Sir ACD, Godtiss, and the Great Moffat.

* * *

**Belief**

_My sorrow, when she's here with me,  
thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful  
as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree;  
she walks the sodden pasture lane._

-Robert Frost

* * *

When he first catches sight of her again, the relief he feels knocks the wind out of him. It has been months, maybe a year, since he has seen her face - the lovely brown eyes, the button nose, the too-thin mouth that feels like heaven against his skin, the freckles that coat her cheeks and forehead - and he revels in the sight of her. He sees pictures of her in the paper, of course. He holds onto whatever the papers say about her, even though he knows more than half of what Kitty Riley writes is pure rubbish. He has a picture of her in his coat pocket at all times, creased and worn from being touched so many times, and he pulls it out every time he kills one of Moriarty's goons.

There is a significant difference from seeing her in the papers to beholding her in real life, he decides as he sits in the chair on the other side of the room from her in the little, suburban coffee shop. His curls are completely gone, cut short and died an ugly bleach-blonde color. His crystalline eyes are hidden from view with brown contacts, and he camouflages his high cheekbones and prominent nose with make-up and prosthetics. He knows that she will not recognize him if she looks at him, and part of him is grateful for that, for this chance to just watch her without her knowledge.

The biggest difference between her in picture in the newspapers and seeing her alive and breathing and moving is that he can see her smile and talk with the workers of the shop. In every picture he has, her brows are furrowed and her lips are pursed and turned downwards in a frown that he has come to associate with Molly Hooper. It looks almost like a pout, the way she holds her expressions, and it would be endearing if it weren't for the fact that _he_ was the reason that she is frowning.

The other part of him - the human, _sentimental_ part - wishes that he did not need to hide from her, from the woman who has always counted and has always seen him for _him_. He knows that eventually he will be able to come out of hiding and be with her openly, be able to walk around with her on his arm without one disguise on his person. That time has yet to come. Moriarty's web is more spread out and hidden then Sherlock had ever had anticipated, and he has a feeling that he will never be truly eradicate it all.

He lets out a wanting sigh when he sees her smile widely at the waiter that brings her the coffee she's ordered. It is the way he takes it: black, two sugars, and it is the little things that she does in remembrance of him that makes his insides quiver and shake with emotion. He smiles in amusement when he sees her face twist at the bitterness of the drink, but she drinks it diligently.

Molly Hooper knows he still alive. After all, she was the one to help him fake his death, but that does not mean that she knows that he is still alive _now_. When he first left her flat months before, he always made sure to send her something, notifying her that he was still living and tracking down all of Moriarty's criminals associates. He had to; he promised her after they lied sated in her bed after another bout of intense lovemaking. Mousy, little Molly Hooper had taken his virginity that night, giving him solace, peace, and rest for a brief time as his world crumbled around him. It was all he could do to let her know that he was still alive, that he would come back for her at some point. As time went on, it became more and more dangerous to let her know that he was still living. She was liability to him, and he decided to cease all contact when one of Moriarty's gorillas threatened to kill the mousy, brown-haired pathologist that Sherlock seemed so taken with.

Though she does not know what he was doing, Sherlock knows exactly what Molly Hooper does. Every time he comes to London (he can't stay away, no matter how hard he tries), he makes sure to dedicate two days or more (mostly more) to just following her around. She still works at Bart's in the morgue, and he will sit on the top of the building across from Bart's, watching her walk back and forth from the morgue to the main building through the glass hallway. When she returns home, Sherlock makes camp in the little apartment that he rents under an unassumed name, keeping guard in case anyone dares to hurt his mousy Molly Hooper.

She is unaware of those visits, and Sherlock longs to let her know that he is still alive. But he cannot. Risking her life means risking his sanity. Whether Molly knows it or not, she helps motivate him to keep going, to keep trying to untangle Moriarty's web, and Sherlock relies on her more than he wishes to admit.

"Like what you see over there, son?" A deep, gravily voice interrupts Sherlock's thoughts. He blanches, mentally bracing himself for one of Moriarty's thugs, but instead is greeted by the sight of an old man with a cane and gray-white hair.

"Uh, n-no," Sherlock stutters in spite of himself. It has been months since he has had a conversation with a real person, and somewhere deep inside him, he misses human contact. He often strays away from that part of his mind, focusing on destroying Moriarty's empire or Molly to keep himself from loneliness.

The old man laughs at Sherlock's struggle, shaking his head as if he knows what Sherlock is feeling. "Don't worry, son. You aren't the only one."

Sherlock raises a bleached eyebrow at the man's words. "Not the only one to what?"

"To watch a woman with longing eyes," the elder man clarifies, his brown eyes looking at Sherlock knowingly. "That brown-haired sweetheart over there, she's a pretty thing, isn't she?"

He barely manages to keep the shock he feels at the man's words off his face. Is the longing he feels for Molly so plainly written on his face? He battles with himself for a moment. He does not want the man to stop talking; Sherlock is craving human interaction, and yet he does wish the man would leave him be. He is putting himself at risk by speaking to a stranger.

The sentimental, human part of him wins out.

"She is," he agrees carefully.

The man lets a small chuckle. "Are you two acquainted yet?"

_Yes, we are. More than most._ The late nights at the morgue and the night where he gave his body over to her flash through Sherlock's mind. "No, I've never spoken to her," Sherlock lies smoothly.

"Why don't you go over there and make nice?" the old man asks. "I am sure she would not mind talking to a man like yourself."

Sherlock quickly shakes his head. "Er, n-no, I cannot. It will not work." It is the damn truth, and Sherlock hates the fact that this is not a lie. Talking to Molly puts her at risk, and Sherlock cannot let that happen. Molly is his anchor, his rock, even if he never told her or anyone else in the world.

The man snorts. "How will you know that it won't work, son, if you never try?"

The point is valid, and Sherlock cannot help but go silent. His desire to go over there and speak to that petite, mousy woman is great, and he knows that if he even entertains the idea that he will do it in a heartbeat.

_No, I cannot. I will not._

"Just a feeling," he answers sullenly after a moment, his tone akin to that of a small boy that cannot have a toy.

"Life is too short to not go after the heart's desire," the man responds quietly after a couple minutes. "Before you know it, that woman will be taken by another, and all chances that you might have had with her will be gone."

Sherlock wishes that he could argue with the man's logic, but he cannot. Sherlock knows it is a real possibility that he will never fully defeat Moriarty's web, and he has no desire to have Molly wait her whole life for a man that is no good for her. Sherlock knows she would move on eventually, and he has no doubt that there is a man out there in the world that could sweep her off her feet and make her happy.

Jealousy flares in the pit of Sherlock's stomach at the notion of another man touching his Molly Hooper the same way Sherlock did all those months ago on the night before he left her, and the man chuckles at Sherlock's expression.

"You don't like that idea, do you, son?"

"No, I don't," Sherlock agrees, his tone low and jealous. The thought of Molly promising herself to another man sickens him to his core, and he sincerely hopes that he never has to endure _that_ kind of heartbreak.

"Then I recommend you talk to her," the man deadpans. "You don't have to do it tonight, but you should do it soon before she slips through your fingers. Don't let her be on your list of regrets."

The man leaves after that, and Sherlock's head is spinning, the elder man's words running over and over again in his mind.

He doesn't speak to Molly. Instead, he completes his normal routine of following her home and watching her, the same longing in his eyes as he had in the shop, from his apartment window as she bustles around in the kitchen, making herself dinner.

* * *

Sherlock leaves to go to Austria the next day. He stands at the dusty window of the apartment, watching Molly as she prepares her breakfast before she heads off to Bart's. He does not know if this is the last time he will ever see, and he hopes with all his soul that it isn't. The future is so uncertain, so shaky, and Sherlock decided long ago that he does not like uncertainty. That's why he likes Molly; she is always stable, always certain.

Tears slip down his cheeks without his consent as he watches her as she sways her hips as she fries eggs to the beat of a song that he cannot hear. He longs for the day when he can come up behind her as she dances and kiss her neck as much as he pleases, make her late for work because of his insatiable appetite for her body.

Oh, if he could only _touch_ her...

With Molly's dancing figure in his mind, he climbs into the cab, listing off the address of the airport mechanically.

_Eventually,_ he promises himself as the cab pulls away from the curb, leaving the street that holds all he hopes for just a blur in the rain.

* * *

It takes him three years to finally take down all of Moriarty's web. The last one he kills is Sebastian Moran, James Moriarty's lover and right-hand man. Accomplishing this task is the second hardest thing Sherlock has ever done, second only to leaving Molly without word that he is alive. It is a relief when the deed is finally done, and when Moran's body finally hits the ground, blood oozing out of his head, Sherlock is numb with shock. When he returns in the hotel he is staying at, he sobs like a small child. He does not sob in his relief; he sobs for lost time. His absence changed everyone's lives - John's, Mrs. Hudson's, Mycroft's.

_Molly's._

He sobs the hardest at the thought of her, of that little, mousy pathologist that without a doubt captured his heart and kept it within her grasp. So much time lost because of stupid James Moriarty and his inability to stop playing Sherlock with his game. Sherlock curls up in a ball of self-loathing, letting every emotion he has suppressed over the course of his life take hold of him, drowning him in the sheer intensity of it all.

He falls asleep later that night, tears in his eyes and Molly on his mind.

* * *

When Sherlock finally returns from the dead, the first person he visits is John. He owes John an explanation more than anyone. Thought, in the back of his mind, he knows that Molly deserves to see him first, but he is honest to god _afraid_ of her reaction to him.

He decides as he sits cross-legged in his old chair in John's flat (Sherlock is pleased that John never had the heart to get rid of it despite moving out of 221b), rubbing his bruising jaw, that Molly's reaction could not be any worse than John's. The older gentleman let loose on the supposedly dead detective, striking him repeatedly in different areas (mostly the aiming for the jaw), before he pulled him into a harsh, teary hug.

All the while, John's new wife - something that Sherlock knows was bound to happen for his domestic friend - watched with amused eyes, making no move to calm her irate husband. She graced Sherlock with a simple 'hello' before asking if John, who was breathing hard and was red in the face, if he wanted some tea.

No, Molly's reaction could not be any worse... could it?

He can feel John watching him. He can feel his intense gaze on Sherlock short, cropped hair. It is no longer that ugly bleached color; it has returned to its natural inky black. Sherlock does not wear any contacts. As Moriarty's web dwindled down, Sherlock wore disguises less and less. He is dressed much more casually, wearing a plain, white t-shirt, khaki pants, and Nike tennis shoes, and he is guessing that his chance in apparel has shocked John Watson more than the doctor is willing to admit.

"What the hell have you been doing while you were gone?" John finally asks the question that has been plaguing his mind since Sherlock returned from the dead still very much alive. John sits across the room from him, his body language still standoffish. Sherlock feels the distance weighing on his chest, and he wishes silently that John would take the empty chair beside him.

Sherlock's eyes go to John's unreadable face. Being gone for so long with so little human contact, Sherlock is more than a little rusty in his deductions as well as his people skills. He has an urge to flinch when his eyes meet John's, but he keeps his gaze steady. "I have been traveling the world-," Sherlock begins carefully. John's eyes harden at Sherlock's statement, and Sherlock suddenly realizes what that sounds like. He hastily adds, "-while tracking down all of Moriarty's goons."

John nods, but the hardness in his eyes does not fade. The sandy-haired man looks down at the cuppa in his hands, his lips pursed and his eyes closed. The tension in the room makes Sherlock shift uncomfortably. This one of his fears: John not being able to forgive, cutting off the friendship that has shaped Sherlock into the better man. Silently, Sherlock prays to God (throughout his absence, he has come to believe there _has_ to be one out there in the universe somewhere) that John can accept him back in his life.

"Is-" John stops suddenly, swallowing audibly. He clears his throat before beginning again. "Is is done, then? Is all of Moriarty's web gone?" John's voice is filled with barely controlled emotion, and Sherlock's thoughts drift back to the night when he finally put a bullet through Sebastian Moran's head and sobbed inconsolably for God knows how long.

Sherlock feels the tears pricking in his eyes. The emotions he is letting himself feel are still raw, and Sherlock gives himself a moment of breathing shakily through his nose to calm himself before replying. "Yes. The deed is done, and I am free from Moriarty forever. _We_ are free from Moriarty forever."

At this, John stands, and Sherlock follows in suit, expecting John to finally dismiss him from his life forever. Instead, John's body smashes into Sherlock's, the elder man's arms going around him and squeezing hard.

The shock of John's actions stuns Sherlock for a moment, making him freeze, before he finally hugs his friend back. The hug makes him yearn for Molly, who did something similar when he left her flat to go face the torturing world of Moriarty's web.

"Welcome back, Sherlock," John whispers brokenly.

It takes Sherlock a moment to realize John is crying, and his own eyes release the tears he's been holding in the entire visit at the revelation.

"It's good to be back, John," Sherlock replies honestly.

* * *

That night, Sherlock dreams of Molly Hooper, of her feminine, physician hands that ran up and down his body, of her soft, lilting voice that calmed and soothed him in his time of need, of her thin, rosy lips that caressed his as he moved inside her, of her honest, brown eyes that stared up at him as he reached his completion.

It is usual for Sherlock to dream of Molly, but this dream is different. Sherlock knows it. Maybe it is the guilt he harbors for not going to her after he saw John. Maybe it is the fact that she is so close, just across the way in fact, that Sherlock can see her move around in her flat, still unaware that her supposedly detective has finally returned to the living for good.

Sherlock sits on the bed cross-legged in his mind palace position. Only he isn't venturing deep in his mind. There is only blood and loneliness there, and Sherlock needs time to heal before he can step through those doors again. Instead, his eyes are trained on the mousy, brown-eyed woman - his _savior_ in all ways of life - as she sits on the counter, her elbows on her knees, and her face in her hands. She had a hard day at Bart's, and Sherlock only knows this because after he left John's, he followed her around for the rest of the day. A tall man with curling black hair and pale skin was at the morgue, and though the resemblance stopped there, it was enough to make Molly have to put down her scalpel and let the tears fall.

She is not crying. She is simply sitting there, hiding her face from the world, and Sherlock yearns to shout her name, to go into her flat and wrap his arms around her, to tell her that it is okay, that she is okay, that _he_ is okay.

But he doesn't. What holds him back is the same fear he felt at John's: being rejected. Only that fear is multiplied by a thousand with Molly. Everything Sherlock has ever felt is multiplied when it comes to Molly. Every fiber of his being is at her whim, and only she is the one that can truly break him. That fact scares Sherlock to no end. Never before has someone had _that_ kind of control. Moriarty had some semblance of control over Sherlock by holding all the ones he loved over his head, but Molly's control is different.

Sherlock _chose_ to play Moriarty's game; he _chose_ to put his whole life on the back burner to rid the world of the evil that Moriarty created. So, in a way, Sherlock had control over the control Moriarty thought he possessed.

With Molly, there was never a choice for Sherlock. When she finally took his heart, he had no say in the matter. It simply disappeared from his grasp and floated to hers. Granted, he was not in love with her the first time he met her. It took time, almost two years, for Sherlock to finally let himself fall, and when he did, he tried with all his might to not let anyone see it, especially her.

Looking back at his choice to hide his feelings, Sherlock wants to hit something. _Time_ - he lost _so much time_ by trying to hide his hard, unyielding emotions for Molly. He could have so much more _time _with her, so much more time to let his love flow over her. But fear - fear stopped him from taking what he wanted so desperately.

It is the same thing that stops him _now._ Fear. Fear of being rejected, fear of being too late, fear of her finally moving on.

Fear, fear, fear, fear.

And in that moment, when Molly finally starts to cry again, long, loud, and desperate, Sherlock truly hates himself more than he ever has.

* * *

Sherlock does not follow Molly when she goes to work that morning. He stays hidden in the shadows, watching from his window as she leaves her flat, her face painfully cheerful and her clothes still as ill-fitting as before. He cannot keep the amused smirk off his face when he catches sight of her kitten-covered purse and flowery blouse.

_Her style truly is horrid,_ he thinks affectionately.

His body is screaming to follow her, to sneak behind her the whole day like he has done for so long, but he stays put. He knows what he has to do today, and he needs a clear mind to accomplish what needs to be done.

He waits half-an-hour after she rounds the corner to finally emerge from his flat in expensive, dark-denim jeans, an untucked gray, button-down cotton shirt, and black converse sneakers. He cuts to the chase, hurriedly crossing the street. He looks as casual as he possibly can as he digs his hand in the flower pot next to her door, searching blindly for the spare key that Molly always keeps there.

His hands shake when he places the key in the lock and turns it. The click of the lock giving way has a finality that causes Sherlock to lose his breath. When the door squeaks open, Sherlock goes inside immediately, shutting the door behind him. He locks it again, knowing that the next time he leaves this flat, he will either come out a broken man or a fulfilled lover. He, again, prays to that god he believes is there that it will be the latter choice.

The flat is relatively the same. Her living room still consists of mismatched furniture and kitten throw pillows. Toby is still living and purrs wildly when he catches sight of Sherlock, rubbing his slinky, feline body around Sherlock's legs. Her bookshelf is still immaculately organized, all the books that were there last time still on the shelf with the exception of the new books she has purchased in his absence. Sherlock cannot help but let out a chuckle when he realizes that her bookshelves are the only thing that is anywhere near organized. The rest of her flat is in chaos.

He snoops around, going in every room to see if her life has changed at all while he was gone. The only significant thing that has changed are the pictures on her walls. Before, it was mostly just old family pictures of her parents, her brother, and herself. Now, there were pictures of two little girls under the age of three, dressed in simply, pink dresses, both reminding him immediately of Molly. His mind goes to the worst, that these are her children, that she _has_ moved on, but the picture of her brother and his wife holding two newborn daughters while leaving the hospital puts that fear to rest.

_Her nieces, her brother's family,_ he realizes with a selfish sigh of relief.

When he reaches her bedroom, he pauses in the doorway, his breath catching in his throat. This was where Molly Hooper claimed him completely, both his body and his mind. He remembers all to vividly when they first made love here, how, with each thrust, her presence flooded his mind palace, taking over every corridor, every crevice, every room like ivy until there was nothing but a wonderful, sweet sense of _Molly_ flooding him. Here, he truly lost himself, his mind going completely blank for the first time in his life.

Here, he finally let himself find solace in all that was Molly Hooper.

Tears slip down his cheeks as he finally enters her room, shutting himself completely in the wonderful scent of roses and lemons and something that is completely and wholly Molly. It is ironic how emotional this experience has made him, how this horribly, desperate situation made him become the better man for Molly. He was still afraid of her rejection, but he no longer feared feeling or showing his true emotion. That fear disappeared when he left her flat all those years ago.

He lies in her bed for hours, hugging her pillow close and breathing in her scent, letting it calm his racing heart. He does not know if he dozes off; he cannot remember because he is so lost in the comfort of her bedroom.

When he glances at the clock, he sighs. _4:30 pm._ She will be home at five, and that was the only certain thing about the future. The rest was entirely in Molly Hooper's hands, just like everything else in his life. Even with that resignation, Sherlock cannot find it in him to be irritated.

* * *

When the lock finally jiggles softly, a multitude of emotion runs through Sherlock, shocking him with the sheer force of it all. He was going to see her, he was going to see Molly Hooper. He might even be able to touch her, hold her, _kiss her. _Entering the flat, Molly calls for Toby, causing the feline to jump off the sofa next to Sherlock and go sprinting towards where her voice radiates. He sees the back of her as she walks into the kitchen, Toby greeting her with a meow and a purr.

Sherlock stands as quietly as he can, gliding over the floor to come and stand at the entrance of the kitchen, his eyes never leaving her.

She moves around the kitchen, already getting out the necessary things to make her tea. He stands in silence behind her, like a lovesick ghost. He can scarcely believe that she is there, in the flesh, close enough to touch. She is still unaware of his presence, something that Sherlock is strangle grateful for. He can watch her for a moment, take in her petite figure, her awful attire, her pulled up brown hair.

Molly speaks softly to Toby, talking absently of her day as she pauses her quest for tea to open a tin for him. "Dear Toby, John is acting so different," she sighs as she pours water into the kettle. "It is almost as if he's... hiding something from me."

Sherlock's lips quirk up. _Because he is,_ he thinks,_ he's hiding the fact that I am here from you._

She goes to the cabinet that holds her plates, pulling one out. "I am probably just being paranoid," she sighs again, turning towards him. Sherlock's breath catches. "Whatever the case, he is st-"

Molly freezes, her wide, brown eyes settling on Sherlock. Her expression would comical, amusing, if it were not for the fact that Sherlock has not been this close to her since that day in the coffee shop. His hands are balled up into fists as he tries to restrain himself from attacking her with kisses.

"Sh-Sherlock?" Her voice sounds strangled, laced with disbelief and confusion. Her eyes go up and down his body, as if she is trying to convince herself that it truly is _Sherlock Holmes_ that stands in her kitchen.

The sound of his name on her lips makes him weak in the knees, and he restrains a groan that threatens to escape his mouth. "Molly," he whispers. It is not a question, it is a statement. A statement of fact that Molly Hooper truly is in front of him, honest to god _looking_ at him, letting her eyes trace down his body like her hands that night in her flat so long ago.

Her eyes fill with tears at the sound of his voice saying her name before she shakes her head, looking at the floor. "No, no, no, no," she chants softly, desperation seeping into her voice, "this is not real. _This cannot be real_. A dream. Yes, another dream."Sherlock's eyes widen at her words, and his mouth droops down in a frown when he sees her shaking body. She glances back up at him, rubbing her eyes before looking at him again.

He takes a step forward, his hand raised. "Molly-" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"NO!" she screeches at him, her back hitting the counter. "Why are you still here? You are a fake! You are a dream!" Her voice raises three octaves and crackles with emotion. Sherlock cannot contain his _shock_ at her sudden outburst. A sob rips from her body, and she begins shaking in earnest. "Why are you not disappearing? I _need_ you to disappear! If you don't, I will believe this is real! And it can't be real!" She sags against the counter, her head in her hands. "It cannot be real!" she sobs. "Too many times it was a dream! Cannot be real!"

He stumbles towards her, intent on showing her how _real_ he really is. "Molly!" he calls at her, taking her hand from her face. She still refuses to look at him, and he places a gentle hand on her chin, pushing her face up. She closes her eyes stubbornly, still muttering about how this is a dream. He sighs, frustrated at her lack of cooperation. He _needs_ her to look at him, _needs_ her overwhelming gaze on him. "Molly, it is me," he whispers softly. "It is me. I am here. This is _real._"

She whimpers softly. "It can't be. I've dreamed of this so often that you cannot be real. I cannot let this dream rule me; I will break."

Her words shatter his heart. Molly _has to_ believe him. He did everything in his power to make it to where they could be together, and he was not letting her be the one to stop.

"I am here, Molly," he repeats gently. "Look at me." Her eyes remain closed, and his frustration bubbles over. "_Look at me,_" he commands. Her brown eyes slowly peak through pale lids, glistening with unshed tears. He smiles softly, "I am real, can't you see?"

She shakes her heads, blinking as tears streak down her head. "How can I know if your real or not?" she whispers brokenly. "How can I be sure?"

Sherlock knows how she can be sure. He knows how _he_ can be sure this isn't a dream. He looks at her carefully, indecisive, before taking a deep breath. "Because _I_ am sure, Molly, and no one has had more dreams of you than _me."_

And, with that, he covers her lips with his.

* * *

The shock that spreads through him like a wildfire is maddening. Too long has it been since he has kissed her, too long has it been since he has held her, too long has it been since _she_ has held _him_.

She opens her mouth to him immediately, gasping into this kiss. He takes the opportunity presented to him and slips his tongue into her mouth, moaning as her tongue caresses him. His hands fall from her face to clutch her hips before wrapping around her back, pulling her as close he possibly can as his mouth attacks hers. Her hands come up and run through his hair, pulling his face closer to hers.

It is heaven, kissing this woman, he decides as he lifts her up, his hands going to the crook of her knees so he can place her on the counter and step between her thighs. Everything is perfectly aligned, setting his body on fire. Molly lets out a moan as he presses his half-hard length against the apex of her thighs, and he growls as his hands run up her legs to her abdomen. One hand settles on her breast, cupping her through her shirt, while the other goes to the small of her back, pressing her against him.

"Sh-Sherlock," she moans into his mouth, and the vibrations from her voice go straight to his groin.

His mouth leaves hers to go to her neck, sucking and licking on the sensitive flesh there as she tips her head back to give him better access. He groans in appreciation as her hands go to the buttons of his gray shirt. As he sucks at her pulse point, her fingers undo the first three buttons of his shirt before she says his name again.

"Sherlock, wait," she says, breathless.

Her skin tastes too good. She _feels_ too good, and Sherlock growls at her denial. "Why?"

"Because I am still unsure whether or not this is a dream." Her voice is still shaking, whether it is the effect he has on her or if it is the fact that she is still not sure that he will be there in the morning, he does not know. All he knows is that Molly Hooper is pressed up against him, and he is denying himself the one thing he has wanted for so long.

He groans in frustration, keeping his hands on her waist as he buries his face in her neck. He refuses to pull away. Stopping himself from kissing her is hard enough, and he is sure he won't survive completely pulling away. "What?" he begs. "What will I have to do to make you believe I am _here?_"

She lets out a shaky breath, emotion clearly overwhelming her. "I-I don't know..."

He removes his face from her neck, and then she is clutching him, as if she is afraid he will leave her hanging. His hands leave her waist, running up the length of her body before resting on her tear-stained cheeks. He looks at her face - that sweet, caring face that has haunted him for so long - and says, "Do not be afraid. I will not leave." He frowns. "That is the point, Molly: I will never leave you now - _ever._" His voice is rough with emotion, the feelings he's want tell her for so long but has not been able to for one reason or another. "It will be _physically impossible _for me to leave you."

"But you did," she cries softly. "You _did_ leave me, and then you stopped letting me know you were alive." Her voice is accusing even though it hardly above a whisper.

"It was a dangerous thing that I did, Molly," he whispers, "letting you know that I was still alive. This man, he threatened you, and I knew in that moment you had to be under the same impression that everyone else was: that I was dead, that I was never going to return." He hangs his head, his hands dropping from her face to lie limp on the counter. "It _killed me_, Molly. To just leave you hanging there. Everyday was a struggle, knowing full well that you believed me dead." One of the nights where he destroyed an entire hotel room at the thought of her thinking him dead flashes through his mind, one of his lowest moments. "The only thing that kept me going was the possibility that you could be waiting for me when I returned, and I held onto that with every fiber of my being."

It is humbling to him, spilling his heart out to her. He grips the counter as he continues, worrying that he will kiss her again if he does not restrain himself. "I use to follow you when I had some free time. I would always return to London to watch you go throughout your day, longing that I could be there with you. The last day I saw you was when you were at that coffee shop, and you ordered coffee, the kind that I take." He let out a small laugh at the memory. "I could see it on your face that you didn't like it, but you drank all of it."

"I-I didn't s-see you," she stutters. He glances up at her too see her blushing in embarrassment.

"That's a good thing," he whispers, looking down at where their bodies touched. "I was in disguise. I was staring at you as you drank when an old man asked me if I liked what I saw." The elder man's gentle face flashes through Sherlock's mind. "He told me to go talk to you, and I wanted to, so desperately, but I felt that the risk was too great. I left for Austria the next day, and I always regretted not going to you that day."

Her body is shaking with emotion, and her hand clutch at his shoulders. Tears are slipping down his cheeks as well as he replays the memory in his mind. "D-do you believe me now?" he asks brokenly. "That I am real? That I am here? Because you need to, Molly. I _need _you to believe because I need to believe as well."

Molly's body wracks with a sob. "Y-yes, Sherlock," she says after a moment, "I believe you."

Relief - sweet relief - floods through him as he closes his eyes. _Thank you god, _he thinks, _thank you, thank you, thank you._

She places her hands on his jaw, pushing his head up. He opens his eyes immediately to see her teary, smiling face. He lets himself return the smile. They stare in each others eyes for a moment before places her lips on his, causing his breathing to hitch. The kiss is soft and passionate, filling him up with all her love.

* * *

When he wakes up the next morning, the first things he registers is the mouthwatering scent of roses and lemons and the view he has of a creamy bare back. His nose touches between her shoulder blades, and his arms are wrapped possessively around her waist. He sighs, content for the first time in three, almost four, years. His night with her was the best thing that had ever happened to him. The thought of her quiet moans and sweet kisses causes his groin to stir, and when she shifts in her sleep, wiggling her backside against his front, he has to bite his tongue to keep from groaning. She is his temptress, his angel, his savior, and he will never give her up.

She is still sleeping; he can tell by the way her breath is deep and even. He kisses the soft skin of her back lovingly, the knowledge that she is still sleeping heavy in his mind as he whispers with closed eyes, "I... I love you, Molly Hooper."

The whole world is silent for a moment, letting Sherlock bask in the glory of his love for this woman, before a soft, amused voice breaks through the peace, causing him to open his eyes and freeze.

"I know, Sherlock Holmes. I love you too."

* * *

A/N: Well, I have to tell you, this is a very _long_ one-shot. I went into this thinking I was going to write a 2,000 word smut-fic, but it turned out to be much more than that. :) This is one of the two treats I am giving my faithful readers for getting me _**200 reviews**_ for _Tomorrow's Unforeseen Happiness_! Thank you all! *kiss, kiss* Hope you enjoyed! Read and review!


End file.
